


What Price for Immortality

by RomanDiget



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanDiget/pseuds/RomanDiget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>inspired by the Song of Achilles, this is short and angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Price for Immortality

Apollo has forged this beach into a sheet of beaten gold. The sea is wine dark and silken, barely a ripple to be seen. Where sea meets land are my ships. Six of them, long and sleek, a single square rigged mast for each. 

My ships; what madness was this? Barely seventeen and I own ships, I command men. My father swore an oath. He made a promise to up-hold a woman’s choice of husband. Badly done that, foolish and beyond reason, but while he lives our house is bound to it. Sadly or is it gladly, he is old and frail, so it falls to me. The High King would absolve us I think, did he not crave me under his yoke. Men say I am the finest weapon the Gods ever forged. They lust to possess it, me, all but one. 

Did I not exist; he would be a hero of note. Tall, swift, golden haired and grey eyed like Athena. When we were barely children, he taught me the casting of javelins. A little older and he let me practice on his lyre. It was our secret. He had taught me every one of the ‘manly’ arts. I think he loved me even then. Almost like a god whispering in his ear, he knew when I was ready for the next thing. 

My father was distracted. The quarrels of kings and chieftains took most of his attention. Common wisdom served for his skill at parenting. A boy receives his first dagger at age seven, his wooden sword at twelve. By age fourteen he is ready for edged weapons and begins to practice with men. 

First time I set foot on the practice field, my cast flew like a stooping eagle. The men made much of it. Boys both of us, we hugged our secret close. It was no small thing to turn bloodthirsty revivers into smiling, jostling, school boys. Were we wiser, our excitement would have been tempered with caution. 

My potential revealed. The courting started in earnest. I had been a pretty child; pretty enough to turn the heads of men who had no liking for boys. Fortunately I was a king’s son. Peleus would have the stones off anyone that tried to force me. That was the fortunate part. The unfortunate part: kings make wars. Any prince that tells you ‘he has studied how to rule wisely’ is a liar. The art of kings is the art of war. 

My friend is no prince. His father is a land-holder. They owe service in battle; they also owe us a share of their harvest. He knows how to help a ewe in a difficult birth, what herbs reduce painful swelling. He understands that after you harvest corn from a field you plant it to lentils, leaving the poppies to grow and bloom makes a better olive harvest. He knows things, does my friend. 

That’s why he is managing the loading of my ships, the marshalling of my men. Only twenty, older men glower at his authority over them. Though, he has a better call on their respect than do I. He bears it, this misplaced envy, shoulders that burden for me. 

He is one of the few I dare to spar with; men have died for my over estimating them. I am gifted, the skills of war are like breathing, but so is dance, and music. Such skills are excellent for a prince to have, but the only one my father values is making men die. Blood sickens me, watching the life drain away like an overturned cup. Cruel, wasteful, and this is the best use my father can make of me; sending me to war for a woman that rejected him. 

My friend was surprised when I came to him, protested when I took him in my mouth. He has learned to accept this part of me too. When he is gentle it is like the arrival of spring time. His breath a fragrant breeze, kisses like the warm rain, and my body the fertile land waiting for seed. 

He loves me best then. Loves when he can treasure me, opening my centre with his mouth. When I slide down on his shaft to ride, he watches my face. As my hips grind against him, he revels in my joy, flexing muscle, straining sinew and the wheaten sheaf of my long hair damp with sweat. When my eyes roll back showing the thinnest crescent of jewel like turquois. Only then is he convinced he has not broken some sacred trust. 

Sometimes I need it to be rough. I need him to take his pleasure from me, to force me. It’s only then I really feel safe, when he has conquered, when he has taken possession of my flesh. He is like the others that way. What he has won, he will not surrender. 

He would grieve himself sick if I left him behind, but he would recover. Like it or not he would take a wife and get sons for his father’s line. He would be a good father. I should love him better. 

I will die in this foreign war. My blood will pour out on the sand like spilled wine. It is one thing to be abandoned; it is another to see your beloved hacked to pieces by cruel bronze. It will break him. The songs will be nails driven into his flesh. No year of his life will be spared remembering me or how I died. I am cruel. I go to war so they will make songs of me. I go to be made immortal, his love is not enough and of that I am ashamed. 

He is coming now sun golden on his hair, sea-soaked chiton clinging to long tan limbs. The fine hair on arms and legs is darkened by water and salt. His muscled chest and trim hips worthy models for any sculptor. My breath quickens as I see the shadow of his root press against the wet linen. Let men make what they wish of my blush, they see only what they choose. The ships are loaded and waiting. I know what he will say. 

“Achilles, the tide is turning. If we mean to go, now is the time.”

**Author's Note:**

> every choice we make has consequences; its rare we are the only ones to bare them.


End file.
